Drunken Survival
by Kool Broadway Reader
Summary: A "The Killer Shrews" fanfic. Captain Sherman, Ann, and Dr. Craigis left him for dead, but Jerry survived the attack. He was supposed to be dead, but he survived. How?


**Disclaimer: I do not own "The Killer Shrews".**

 ** _This fanfic is dedicated to Wrestlingfan438-thanks for everything._**

Drunken Survival

He survived the attack. He was supposed to be dead, but he survived. How?

Jerry took note of this obvious fact just in time to see the speed boat collide into the tumbling waves before edging away from the eye of the storm. The wake in the water waved 'good riddance' to the treacherous research grounds and to his lonely soul.

Thick pellets of rain from an aftermath shower smashed into his body, making him aware of the bruising pounce outlines caused by those damn killer shrews. He pulled himself off of the sand to observe the shore. Besides debris, he was only greeted with bitter vacancy. Basking in the momentary safety, he exposed his flesh to the dying hurricane, dropping his pants and shirt in a mucky puddle.

"Not a scratch or bite on me. How the hell did I survive that?" Jerry murmured, brushing calloused finger tips along the pulsing paw prints that yellowed his olive skin. The mutant shrews had been unstoppable for weeks, eating every morsel it came into contact with. Their desire for nutrients never faltered, but tonight was open season for those monsters, why did they let him survive? The island was eerily peaceful, he resolved to figuring out that question later.

After pulling the muddy shirt back over his head, Jerry took note of his hungover state. Hiccuping, he surrendered any last remains of serenity and succumbed to his hazy desire to investigate.

Between his drowsy legs and the temper-tantrum winds, he stumbled along the beach in search of the creatures. With no livestock, contaminated supplies, and a broken radio, he convinced himself that death was going to visit him soon. As fear of the unknown took over, he decided to go with at least one good deed on his conscious. Jerry knew he wasn't the plumpest human alive, but his body would provide a decent last supper for those look alike dogs, wherever they may be.

Anxious to greet death, his heavy body stopped the half-assed investigation and started in the direction of their nest. He was right, they had returned. The whine of the opening gate outlining their exhibit made the creatures leap up in defense. Their eyes locked with his, it was too late to back down from the sacrifice.

Jerry forced out a "Hail Mary" before accepting his suicide. He watched as the yellows in the mutants' eyes dilated with hungry passion. The demons pounced. Jerry took in his last sight - the shrews' drooling lips set in a wicked smile- before sealing his eyes forever. He felt sharp claws dig into the bruises on his chest, their snouts dangerously close to his face. His muscles tightened in anticipation for the first bite, yet in never came. Instead, disappointed howls met his ears and his eyes briefly opened to see the beasts cowering away from him.

Perhaps the shrews had a full stomach? Impossible, Jerry argued with himself, they wouldn't waste the energy on attacking a creature that didn't not show threatening signs. Despite their odd behavior, he knew he wasn't in the clear for much longer. As he stood to leave the enclosure, Jerry's foot collided with one of his empty scotch bottles. The container skidded before breaking on impact.

The shrews attacked the broken glass, however once their snouts sniffed the alcohol, they ran away.

Jerry pondered this odd behavior. The creatures never demonstrated this much sensitivity to an odor before. True, he wasn't as hands on with them as everyone else on the island. Yet when Ann ranted about her findings each night, sensitivity to scotch never came up. He finally made his own discovery.

The shrews hated scotch. He hated the shrews. During last night's fiasco, he drowned his entire being in the drink, and even spilt some over his clothing. His addiction was his savior.

His hangover would wear off soon. With no time to lose, Jerry retrieved a forgotten loaded gun and eradicated the overgrown mutants from the safety of a tree that had not fallen victim to the hurricane. Unable to determine if there were any remaining killer shrews, he let his sick body and pounding mind rest in the branches until the sun disappeared behind the moon.

When all was peaceful, Jerry slid down the tree, gun tightly held in his grasp. He stepped over the carcasses and refused to let guilt penetrate his soul. His jealous stupidity had caused this mess after all, and the lives of others had paid the price. The least he could do was murder the brats that created the hell. He saved his own ass from death, but the research grounds were wiped of any food and valuable resources. Between the hurricane and the attacks, the island was a desolate waste land. He escaped inside the house in hopes that the change of scenery would offer up some solutions.

Despite the hurricane, the house wasn't in complete shambles. The wood could be of use to him. Jerry searched the area for tools and turned his attention to the annoying, squeaking sound that was pounding in his ear drum once he found what he was looking for.

Locked away in cages a few normal shrew pups that had survived the storm scurried around. Checking the clipboard, the information demonstrated that no experiments had been performed on them yet. For an unlucky man, luck was on his side tonight. A wicked grin crossed Jerry's features as he dipped his hand in to retrieve one of the male shrews.

"Well, you're a strong one, aren't you?" Jerry commented, carefully holding the animal so it wouldn't escape. "You're going to be one of my little pets now, Nuka. We will have the best time, you see you're going to help me plot my revenge." He breathed on Nuka, and watched the little one squirm in attempts of escaping the foul odor. After enough torture, he placed the shrew back in his cage and then opened up a new bottle of scotch that had also been left untouched. Taking a deep sip, he thought about Ann.

His sweet, foolish Ann. She was so easy, at times. Her and Dr. Craigis taught him so much more than a lousy biology textbook ever could. He'd be just fine manipulating the shrews genetic code and programming nature to satisfy his revenge against Captain Sherman. Maybe he'd add in a a revenge plot against his ex-fiance. However, she was only in the picture for his own mother's sake. Yet, she was his before that idiot Sherman stole her from him.

He slammed the bottle down. He would be fine without her, without all of them! God had given him hands-he could make a new row boat and go into the next town to gather supplies. He could live as a hermit and prepare for his next attack. Jerry secretly preferred to be alone anyway. Even with Ann, she was just a pleasure accessory. He didn't need her, he could please himself now.

Dr. Craigis and Ann were predictable, though. Ann was such a sweetheart, she would be back to make sure the surviving shrews hadn't disrupted nature's precious balance. She would also bring her father and Sherman with her. She wasn't an idiot, she wouldn't travel alone. She was just foolish enough to fall into one of his traps.

Until then, Jerry would plot his revenge, play God, and wait patiently on the island.


End file.
